


His Inferior Condition

by Verecunda



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Hate Sex, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 16:09:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11085159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verecunda/pseuds/Verecunda
Summary: Whilst on an errand to Bruton-street, Mr Childermass finds Mr Lascelles in a state of considerable undress. The discerning reader may anticipate what follows.





	His Inferior Condition

**Author's Note:**

> Look. You can't give me that description of Lascelles slobbing about in his dressing-gown in chapter 37 and _not_ expect my brain to go straight to the gutter.

It was a regrettable part of Childermass’ duties that, as Mr Lascelles held the position of editor of _The Friends of English Magic_ , he regularly found himself dispatched to that gentleman’s residence in Bruton-street on errands pertaining to the periodical. On this occasion he had been sent with some corrections devised by Mr Norrell at the last minute. Having devised them, he had of course consequently worked himself into agonies over them, so that Childermass, who was generally inclined to put off any visit to Lascelles until it could no longer be reasonably avoided, was obliged to make good time.

He was admitted to the house with a great shew of reluctance, for Lascelles seemed to employ servants of much the same malicious, scornful character as himself (not that he should ever like to consider that there was any point of similarity between himself and such people, a thought that occasioned Childermass much wry amusement), and the footman seemed a good deal affronted that he should be required to admit such a person as Childermass. Were he not known as Mr Norrell’s man, Childermass had no doubt that he would be directed to enter through the servants’ door round the back. As it was, they must endure his coming in through the front. This vexed the footman extremely, which made Childermass smile in his sideways manner, and make a point of trailing mud across the floor tiles and letting the skirts of his old greatcoat brush the elegant paper-hangings on the wall. Out the corner of his eye, he saw the man wince.

“Where is your master?” he asked, drawing Norrell’s papers from his coat as a means of foregoing the usual foolishness.

“Mr Lascelles does not wish to be disturbed,” replied the footman, looking offended that Childermasss should have dared to enquire at all. He reached out a hand. “If you will give those to me-”

But all Childermass gave him was a glare. “I was instructed to deliver them to Mr Lascelles in person.” This had not, in fact, been explicitly stated, but it was understood, and in any event, Childermass had no great desire to hand Norrell’s private papers over to any one who might take it upon himself to rifle through them for his own idle amusement. If he must be resigned to Lascelles’ meddling in Norrell’s affairs for now, he was determined to deal with Lascelles alone. “Where is he?”

Gratifyingly, the footman shrank beneath his gaze, and reluctantly offered up, “He is in the library.”

Childermass gave a grim smile, and made his way upstairs. The house was quiet; he observed this every time he came. The servants went about their business, as remote from each other as they were from their master. There was none of the fellowship shared by Norrell’s servants, particularly the ones who had, like Childermass himself, come down with him from Yorkshire. Here, each servant had his own place, and guarded it jealously from his fellows. It made for a most disagreeable atmosphere.

On the first floor landing, he almost tripped over one of Lascelles’ valets, who, apparently wanting for any other occupation, was sitting with his nose firmly stuck in a copy of _The Newgate Calendar_. When he looked up and saw Childermass looming over him, the colour drained from his face, as if one of the murderers from his afternoon’s entertainment had been conjured from the pages to stand before him. With a dry “Mr Wallis,” Childermass brushed past him and made his way up to the second floor, where the library was to be found. Reaching the door, he rapped sharply upon it and without waiting for a response, went inside.

Unlike the public rooms of the house, which were kept in a state of elegance calculated to excite seething envy in the breast of all visitors, the library was something comparable to a midden. The curtains hung open in a careless, slouching attitude, no attempt having been made to tie them back, and the sunlight streaming through the windows revealed a sight that was nothing short of chaos. The desk was hidden beneath a litter of books and papers: books on magical theory, letters, issues of sundry periodicals, notes, newspapers, biographies of various Argentine magicians, more notes, Government reports. Nor were these confined to the desk. Almost every surface had been commandeered for their use; they had even encroached upon the floor, stacked precariously against the side of the desk and half-obscuring the Turkey carpet. The few spaces which had escaped the chaos of paper were instead piled with breakfast plates and a quite alarming number of coffee cups.

By far the most surprizing sight in this room, however, was Lascelles himself. To the best of Childermass’ recollection, the man had never suffered himself to be seen in any condition short of sartorial perfection. But though it was now past noon (Childermass had heard the bells of St George’s even before he had left Mr Norrell’s house), there was no sight of fine tailored coat, embroidered waistcoat, or precisely-tied neckcloth. Instead he was perfunctorily clad in a dressing-gown of green silk, and a light trace of auburn about his cheekbones and upper lip betrayed the fact that he had not even shaved.

He was reading a letter when Childermass entered. “I gave instructions that I was not to be disturbed unless-” He looked up, and his eyes widened. “You! Who on earth let you in?”

Childermass chose not to dignify that with an answer. Instead he slapped the bundle down on the desk, raising a small flurry of loose papers. “There. Corrections for the _Friends_.” He looked pointedly around at the clutter surrounding them and added, “Seeing as you are so hard at work already.”

Lascelles tutted as the papers landed before him, and flashed Childermass a look of contempt. But there was some quality of unease behind it, as if he was sensible of having been caught at a disadvantage. Childermass smiled drily, and regarded him with more interest. Lascelles’ hair was much tousled, having not yet come into contact with a comb today, and put him in mind of how it looked after his own hands had been in it. The connexion sent a dart of heat through him, and he felt his amusement give way to something quite different. Now he could not help but observe how Lascelles’ dressing-gown gaped open above the belt, providing a pleasing glimpse of his chest and its fine dusting of hair. 

“Are you waiting there for a reason?” asked Lascelles. He put the question in his usual haughty, careless tones, as if Childermass’ reasons for doing any thing were of not the least concern to him, and that his continued presence was a mere bore. But Childermass saw how he shifted in his chair, and how his hand moved to the belt of the dressing-gown, as if to assure himself that it still held. Childermass’ blood warmed in him, and he wondered - not quite idly - if Lascelles was as naked below the waist as he was above it.

For now, he shrugged. “Any message to take back to Mr Norrell? I do not suppose you will be attending on him until later.” He smiled. “You’re in no fit state to be seen by civilised people.”

Lascelles caught the barb at once, eyes narrowing as Childermass threw his own words back at him. Time and time again, he had heard Lascelles declaiming about him to Norrell, insisting that neither his appearance, nor his attire, nor his manners, were at all becoming to a servant of the first magician in England. These denunciations were always made when Childermass was certain to hear them, and though he had no great fear that Norrell was suddenly going to insist upon his dressing in livery or cutting his hair, it was enough to cause him to be even more determinedly insolent in Lascelles’ presence.

But despite his amusement at this reversal, the sight of Lascelles in such a condition had brought him up short. To be sure, he had seen Lascelles in a state of even greater undress before. But in all their previous encounters, the thrill had been in undressing him fully, stripping away those fashionable garments, peeling away that studied front of arrogant indolence, until Henry Lascelles was helpless and shivering beneath his hands. To discover him in this state - undressed but not quite bared, exposed but not quite laid open, suspended somewhere in between - it raised a dark, unexpected ache deep within him.

“What in God’s name are you smiling about?” Lascelles’ voice was terse, high with tension.

Damn the man. Already Childermass could feel the desire growing, his cock already heavy with it. Not for the first time, he wondered how it was that he could feel such want for something so hateful. He had not yet found a satisfactory answer to that, and it troubled him, for with no answer he had no way to fight it.

But his voice was dry enough as he answered, “I had no notion you were such a bloody slut, sir.” He leaned over the desk. “What would they say in all those fashionable salons if they could see the state of you now?”

Lascelles lifted his chin and cast a disparaging eye up and down Childermass’ frame. “At least I have the decency to keep it private. _I_ do not flaunt my sloveliness before the world.”

“Decency?” Childermass repeated, honestly amused, for there was surely no word more ill-suited to be applied to Henry Lascelles, in any circumstance. “And you wandering around without so much as a scrap of linen beneath your dressing-gown? There are ladies in Covent Garden who’ve more modesty than you, Mr Lascelles.”

Lascelles’ mouth went very thin, but he made a creditable effort to appear unmoved. “I have a proof of the latest chapter of the book, which you may take back to Mr Norrell.”

At this he stood and moved over to another table, also piled with papers, and Childermass was diverted by the sight of his bare legs stretching out from beneath the hem of the gown, his long, bony feet very white against the carpet. The sight of Lascelles’ legs was always sure to stir him, recalling him to how they felt wrapped around his waist, those long calves closing about him. Lascelles caught his gaze, and at once his eyes widened, as if the thought had leapt from Childermass’ head into his. 

The impulse was too great. Removing his gloves and throwing them to one side, Childermass closed the short distance between them in a few steps, bringing himself up hard against Lascelles’ person. Curiosity getting the better of him, he reached out and ran his thumb along Lascelles’ unshaven jaw. The bristles caught at his calloused skin, sending a light tremor straight to his prick. He smiled. How often had Lascelles decried his own bearded chin as both unfashionable and unsightly? Often enough for Childermass to take great satisfaction in rubbing it against him whenever the opportunity presented itself. But now he found himself imagining Lascelles doing the same to him, wondering how that roughness would feel against his own skin: his neck, perhaps, or his chest, or against the inside of his thighs…

He bit down upon a groan as he brushed his thumb along Lascelles’ bottom lip. Complaisantly, it fell open, and Lascelles’ resulting gasp was warm against his fingertips. Childermass could not resist such a temptation: he bent his head and caught it, hard, between his teeth. Lascelles’ body gave a shudder that Childermass felt ripple through his own, but his voice was all venom as he whispered against his mouth, “I ought to have known this should excite you, you filthy dog.”

Childermass’ blood rose at the taunt: anger, and worse. He hated that Lascelles’ gibes could affect him this much, raising not just his insolence (which he was always pleased to bestow upon any one who deserved it), but every dark, feral instinct within him, as if his own body conspired to make him the low, bestial thing that Lascelles despised him as. He swallowed back a growl, reducing it to a vague grunt, and before Lascelles could say any thing else, he stole a hand about his waist and pulled his body sharply against his own, holding him there at the small of his back. With his other hand he stroked Lascelles’ hip, fingertips idly tracing the flowered pattern of the dressing-gown, pressing into the skin through the silk. Lascelles writhed against him, gasping, and his hips twitched helplessly against Childermass’.

Childermass breathed a laugh against his ear. “God, but you are a brazen hussy, aren’t you?” And, seeing the outrage spark in Lascelles’ eyes, he moved in to claim his mouth entirely, forcing his lips apart and thrusting his tongue inside without ceremony. Lascelles made a little stifled noise in his throat, and his hand came up to press against Childermass’ chest, as if he would push him away; but then it curled in his waistcoat for purchase, and his tongue was pushing imperiously against Childermass’ own. His mouth was hot, faintly bitter with a lingering taste of coffee, and the short hairs of his morning beard rasped against Childermass’ own: an entirely new sensation between them. Intoxicated, Childermass groaned.

Suddenly, Lascelles pressed his palm flat against his chest and twisted his head away. The blood had risen in his face, flushing his skin all down his neck and his chest, at least until the edges of his dressing-gown pinched shut and hid it from view. He glared at him, and Childermass saw, as he always did in these moments, that fleeting, fugitive thing that lurked behind the mask: that vein of frailty which, just on occasion, shewed itself through the viciousness. An admission, or an illusion? He could never make certain, but every time he saw it, it was enough to get his blood up and leave him iron-hard as he contemplated how he might reach inside and tear it out.

He was hard now, his prick aching fiercely. Holding Lascelles firm in place, he reached down with his free hand, flung aside a fold of slippery silk and grasped the slim thigh he found beneath. It always came as something of a surprize to him that Lascelles’ skin should be warm, and soft besides, and yet again the rediscovery of this fact was enough to make his arousal flare. He cursed, dug his fingers into that deceptively warm flesh and hitched Lascelles’ leg up, dragging them fast together until the hard jut of Lascelles’ cock drove against his own.

His blood was running fever-hot now. He was inescapably sensible that all that stood between him and Lascelles’ nakedness was a single knot in the belt of his dressing-gown. He could have him now, in this very room: bent over the desk, hard up against the nearest bookshelf, or even in the middle of the carpet, rutting together on that midden of a floor. As his mind raced with the possibilities, he took his hand from Lascelles’ thigh, slid it between their close-pressed bodies, and took hold of the belt.

But Lascelles’ hand closed about his wrist, grasping painfully hard. “No.”

Childermass felt a stab of frustration, but merely rolled his eyes. “No? Don’t tell me you are turning missish now, Mr Lascelles.”

Lascelles threw him his most withering glare, expressive of profound contempt for his lack of understanding. “Not here.”

“Why not?” he demanded, unable to keep the impatience out of his voice. It was unlike Lascelles to be coy once the proceedings had begun in earnest. “There is no chance of us being observed?”

He thought of the skulking valet with his _Newgate Calendar_. If ever there was a fellow who might take it into his head to go peeping through keyholes, it was that one.

“No,” said Lascelles, and with great significance added, “ _My_ servants, at least, understand that they are not wanted unless I ring for them.”

And what a wretched bloody existence that must be, thought Childermass. But it did not answer his original question, and so he retorted, “Then what’s your objection? This room is as good as any for the business.”

To affirm the point, he shrugged out of his greatcoat and let it fall in an untidy heap, closely followed by his hat. Not to be outdone, Lascelles sneered, “Cannot you keep your baser impulses under control for even a minute?”

The taunt set his teeth on edge, for his baser impulses were indeed hammering at the gates, demanding to be let loose. To communicate his displeasure, he took Lascelles’ head between his hands and pulled him into a rough, snarling kiss, both attacking at once with teeth and tongue, until they were each panting for breath into the other’s mouth. Tearing his mouth away, he moved his mouth to drag his teeth against Lascelles’ jaw, the space behind his ear then, finally, the long sweep of his throat.

Usually, Lascelles’ skin smelt crisply of cologne-water, but now, as Childermass buried his face in the crook of neck and shoulder and breathed him in, it smelt warm and slightly frowzy, with a lingering trace of sweat, and he ran his tongue along the curve of his neck to taste it, until Lascelles made a noise of sheer desperation and clung to him like a man drowning, his hands tangling in Childermass’ hair, clawing at his scalp, pulling so hard it sent a thrill of pain through his every nerve. Childermass smiled darkly into his skin, wondering at how beautifully, how _inevitably_ he could make Lascelles come apart like this. It almost made up for his powerlessness, in any other situation, to take that gentleman to pieces with his bare hands.

“There, sir,” he murmured, bringing his lips against the curve of his ear. “You do not object too much to my baser impulses.”

Lascelles was breathing hard, his eyes wild, his mouth red, the flush across his fine cheekbones all the more stark for the livid pallor of his face. He looked wonderfully dissipated, and Childermass felt the lust flare raw and hot within him at the thought of debauching him utterly, of ripping away both flimsy silk and flimsier façade of superiority, of shewing him that his impulses were no more exalted than were Childermass’ own. To that end, he brought his hands down, looked Lascelles directly in the eye - then, when he was sure that Lascelles could comprehend exactly what was happening, untied the knot at his belt.

At the first shock of air against his naked skin, Lascelles gasped aloud, and he gasped again as Childermass pulled him roughly against himself, pressing them together from chest to toe, the rough wool of his garments dragging against all that exposed skin. He seized him roughly by the hips and pressed his thigh between both of Lascelles’, bringing their cocks together and groaning deeply at the exquisite pressure. It was only a momentary relief, but it was enough to make Lascelles buckle against him, even as his fingers dug bruises into his shoulders and he hissed, “You filthy, crawling gutter-rat - you are - I - _oh_ -”

For a wild moment, Childermass was half-tempted to let him go, leave him as he was, desperate and unfulfilled, stewing in his own frustration. It was a fine thought, and it was the least the bloody villain deserved. It did, however, have the undesirable consequence of leaving him high and dry himself, and he had no intention of making his way back to Hanover-square in his present condition.

It was high time he brought this to an end. A few steps away, beneath the window, there was a sopha. Like everything else in the room, it was strewn with papers, but it was by far the most likely-looking spot. Releasing Lascelles for the time being, he moved over and swept the papers to the floor to join the rest of the mess there.

Lascelles bristled. “I needed those for this month’s issue!”

Childermass shrugged, stepping deliberately over the pile. “You can sort them again later.”

Forestalling any more protestations, he took Lascelles by the arms and bore him down, laying him out along the length of the sopha before moving over him and letting his own weight press him down into the cushions. For a minute and more they simply remained as they were, rocking fitfully together, just long enough for Childermass to remember himself; then, when he judged the moment ready, he sat back and cast his eye over the spectacle now presented to him.

Beneath him, Lascelles was flung out, long and white and slender, his legs bent at the knee and inelegantly parted on either side of Childermass’ body. His dressing-gown had slipped from his shoulders, green silk rucked about him in a pleasing disarray. The porcelain paleness of his skin was in marked contrast to his prick, which was deeply flushed and lay stiff against his belly, already gleaming with his seed. His eyes were dark and dazed, his chest heaved with every breath, and for perhaps the thousandth time Childermass was forced to reflect that it was a bloody waste that he should be such a bastard, because he _was_ very fine, all white and red-gold, helpless with want, flaunting himself like the lewdest Seven Dials harlot.

His first thought was to have him then and there, to strip away the dressing-gown once and for all, turn him onto his belly and fuck him until he wept. But that was not what he wanted just now. He wanted more than just a commonplace fuck. He wanted something suitably decadent for the occasion.

Just then, he felt Lascelles’ hands at the fall of his breeches, and realised he had been contemplating this problem just a moment too long. Lascelles was growing impatient, which was never ideal. He closed his eyes, let himself savour, just for a heartbeat, the light pressure of those fingers against his cock, before seizing Lascelles’ thin wrists in his hands and bending them back. Lascelles thrashed beneath him, but Childermass was utterly absorbed in the sight of those fine hands with their long, tapering fingers. Hands wholly unfamiliar with honest labour, but which had been - to do them only justice - quite busily employed of late. The skin was stained in several places with ink, which shewed as darkly as a bruise. Some of it had even contrived to get under his nails, leaving them stained as black as Childermass’ own, and there was the unmistakeable roughness of a callous on the middle finger of the left hand, where the pen had worn at the skin. This was so fascinating, so wholly out of keeping with Lascelles’ otherwise flawless presentation, that Childermass could not resist the urge to put his tongue to it, before drawing the tip of the finger between his lips.

Lascelles was instantly still. Childermass felt his eyes upon him: he raised his own to meet that rapt gaze, and took the full length of his finger into his mouth, tasting faintly a trace of salt from the skin and, more, sharply, the tang of the ink. He moved his mouth up and down Lascelles’ middle finger, ran his tongue along the whole length, over the ridge of each knuckle; then, when he was at last satisfied that it had been very thoroughly wetted, released it and moved his mouth to another.

At the sensation of Childermass’ mouth on the first finger, Lascelles’ breath went very shallow. At the second, it began to come faster. By the time Childermass had applied his mouth to all five, and pressed his tongue firmly against the pulse that beat in the pad of his thumb, he was uttering low, whining noises through tightly-clenched teeth. There was a barely-contained desperation in his looks, but he was not quite ready to break.

When at last Childermass released his thumb, he considered Lascelles’ hand, the fingers wet and gleaming. Then, on an irresistible impulse, he guided Lascelles’ hand down between his own thighs, and folded his fingers firmly about his own prick. Lascelles’ eyes flew open, and his hand twitched, as if he would snatch it away, but Childermass held it fast in place. Pitching his voice low and dark, he urged, “Go on.”

Something very like fear shewed in Lascelles’ face. “No,” he cried, “no, I will not-”

Childermass leaned over him, putting his face just close enough to Lascelles’ for his breath to brush against his lips, and breathed, “Go on, sir. Show me what a bloody shameless bugger you are.”

As further encouragement, he closed his hand tighter about Lascelles’, increasing the pressure of his own hand on his prick. That seemed to answer. Lascelles was fully hard and increasingly desperate, and the promise of any sort of relief was altogether too much for him. He gave a groan: Childermass heard surrender in the sound of it, and drew back with a smile. He released his grasp on Lascelles’ hand, and watched as Lascelles instinctively tightened his own hold on his cock. At once, his hips rose, arching sharply into his own touch, and he gave a little hiss at the sensation. He lowered his hips again, settled himself more comfortably, then, slowly, his hand began to move. It closed firmly about the base of the shaft, stroked up and over the head, twisted (this eliciting a gasp), then slid back down before moving up again.

Childermass watched with intense fascination, hardly daring to blink lest he should miss a single detail. Lascelles’ head was thrown back, his right arm crooked above it, his free hand clenched in a fist that opened and closed with every stroke. His eyes were tightly closed, his brow tensed in a frown of concentration as he sought his rhythm. By slow degrees, his manipulations gained in force - harder, surer - until soon his whole body was moving in concert with his hand, undulating with every stroke. Low, animal moans issued from his mouth, and Childermass was hard-pressed to suppress a groan of his own. He was enraptured by the sight of Lascelles’ face, his patrician features twisted with lust and effort, and by the sight of those long white fingers against the dark-swollen flesh of his cock. His own pulsed in sympathy, knowing the precise way those fingers felt around it (for Lascelles had a very singular way of taking him in hand, as if he would much rather his fingers were wrapped around Childermass’ throat instead). 

Frustration was mounting swiftly within him. Lascelles’ hand had established a slow, steady pace that was a torment to watch: he itched to knock that languid hand away and finish the job himself, or to reach inside his breeches and stroke himself to his own completion. Instead he sought purchase elsewhere, grasping the back of the sopha with one hand and Lascelles’ knee with the other until his knuckles went white.

A sudden moan from Lascelles recalled him to some sense of purpose, and somehow he found the will to raise his eyes from Lascelles’ hand to his face. His eyes were still closed, but the expression of pained exertion had softened as he gave himself up entirely to his body’s natural rhythm, a faint smile about the corners of his mouth as he lost himself in some erotic fancy. But Childermass did not want him safe in the refuge of his own imagination: he wanted him fully aware of where he was, that he was watching him, alert to every moment of his debasement.

“Open your eyes,” he said, voice raw in his throat. “Open your eyes; look at me.”

Slowly, Lascelles’ eyes blinked open. Childermass fixed him with his full gaze, let the weight of it settle over him, into him, until the breath shuddered out of him. But his hand never once faltered at its task. If anything, it quickened. Childermass saw it at once.

“Look at you,” he growled. “Look at you, you bloody harlot. What a shameful display. What would they say if they could see how you play the whore for a man like me?”

Lascelles gave a strangled cry, but none of his usual invective was forthcoming. He seemed sapped of all defiance, incapable of tearing his eyes from Childermass’ as he worked himself with mounting urgency, the moans spilling soft and fast from his lips. His skin had assumed a sheen of sweat, and his balls were drawn tight. His back arched ever more sharply, straining to meet his touch, his hand clenching and caressing ever faster as he reached for his crisis. Childermass watched him greedily, fingers digging bruises into the soft flesh of his thigh, nearly panting as he watched that hand stroking, stroking, until suddenly Lascelles’ body gave one final arch, transfixed with pleasure, his seed spilled over his hand and belly, and he collapsed against the sopha with a cry that sounded almost anguished.

For long moments afterward there was silence, save for their breathing, loud and ragged. Lascelles lay where he had fallen, spent and exhausted, his limbs twitching. He looked utterly ruined, and Childermass had to resist the temptation to stroke the sweat-damp hair that curled against his brow, or to say some soothing thing. It was at this time, when he was flushed and soft and fragile in the aftermath of his pleasure - when he was most beautiful - that Henry Lascelles was most dangerous. That was when Childermass was most in danger of forgetting exactly what he was. Of forgetting himself.

Quickly turning his mind to more practical matters - for he was still practical, even now - he realised that his own prick was fit to burst. A fine sweat had gathered between his skin and clothing, and his neckcloth had grown uncomfortably tight. He was hot, burning for relief, but even the roughest sort of fuck required a deal of preparation, and he knew he hadn’t the patience for that now.

Still bracing himself on Lascelles’ thigh, he took his right hand from the back of the sopha and opened his breeches. He was all thumbs, but at last he succeeded in easing both breeches and smalls over his hips, just far enough to free his cock and allow him to take himself in hand.

As he anticipated, he did not last long. Watching Lascelles debauch himself had been enough to bring him right to the edge of his own pleasure. A few hard strokes was all it took, and all at once his end came over him, passing through him in one great shudder. He spent in a fierce rush, spilling hot over his hand and Lascelles’ prone form, across his belly and chest, even staining the rumpled silk of his dressing-gown. At once, the tension went out of him, and he groaned deeply in relief, hanging his head as he waited for his wits to return.

It was over so quickly that Lascelles had still not quite caught his breath, and it was with a dazed, wondering aspect that he looked over himself, at the mess they had both made of him, and touched the wet stain upon his sleeve. Somehow it was that which brought him back to himself. In an instant, he was Lascelles again. All softness vanished, and every line of his face turned to flint. 

Very softly, he said, “Get out.”

Childermass frowned. He was used to Lascelles’ petulant transports after their encounters, enjoyed them even, but this was something he had never seen before.

Determined to hide his unease, however, he said wryly, “No civil word for me, even now?”

But now Lascelles was sitting up, and his voice was unnaturally calm, cold venom lurking behind every word as he repeated, “Get out, or by God I will have you dragged out and thrown into the gutter where you belong.”

He was pulling the crumpled folds of his dressing-gown about himself in a vain effort to reclaim some dignity, and it would have been comical, had it not been for the air of close-gathered fury that now surrounded him and threatened to fly out at any minute. He was provoked to his limit, Childermass saw at once: any further, and it would be the worse for him. There were depths to Henry Lascelles - dark, twisted depths - that he was not yet willing to test.

With a shrug, he withdrew. “As you please, sir.”

With exaggerated movements, he went about righting himself, cleaning himself with his handkerchief and buttoning his breeches. As he stood and recovered his coat, hat, and gloves, he allowed himself one last look at Lascelles on the sopha, his limbs loosely sprawled, his colour high. He looked furious, and ashamed, and very well-used indeed.

Crossing to the table that Lascelles had made for earlier, Childermass picked up a bundle of papers. “The proofs for Mr Norrell?”

“Yes,” bit out Lascelles, and his gaze vowed revenge. “Now leave at once.”

Childermass gave an ironical dip of his head. “I’m obliged to you, Mr Lascelles.” And with one last, sardonic smile, he left the library, Lascelles’ eyes like knives at his back.

He would pay for this, he knew. The next time Lascelles shewed himself at Hanover-square, he would be full of fresh malice, and Childermass would have to be doubly on his guard to counter it. But he was prepared. And if their encounter today had disturbed him, he could at least take a grim sort of comfort in the knowledge that it had disturbed Lascelles no less. For now, at least, their deadlock still held.


End file.
